The Hour of Departure
by Menace of Mine
Summary: Hello everyone! Welcome to my first masterpiece posted on fanfiction.net! A somewhat angsty one-shot (or at least I think it is. My friends don't think I can write anything sad.) centering on Ron's dilemmas after Harry is dead and Hermione has become m


~*~The Hour of Departure~*~  
  
"The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways – I to die and you to live. Which is better God only knows."  
  
- Plato  
  
At first glance, the young woman sitting up in the hospital bed appeared perfectly normal. Her bushy hair framed her freckled face and her crisp, white hospital gown was neat and clean. She was staring aimlessly out the window, humming softly under her breath. In fact, most people who passed by asked why she was not being released, for she seemed in the peak of health. Why keep such a cheerful, healthy young woman locked in a medical ward of St. Mungo's? Buy Ron knew better. He knew the reason the young woman had not noticed his arrival, though he had been sitting there for almost 15 minutes. He knew why she was wringing her hands, though the almost obnoxious smile remained in place. He knew why. But some days, like this one, he wished he didn't. For, quite unfortunately, Hermione Granger was insane.  
She had been for a time now, but it seemed like only yesterday to Ron that Hermione had run into the common room, screaming bloody murder and trying to claw her eyes out. It had only been four days before the train would arrive to take their entire year home for the last time. But Hermione did not join them on the train. She was in St. Mungo's, Healers surrounding her with the hustle and bustle of panicked physicians. Ron had not gone home on the train either. He had been attempting to see Hermione, trying futilely to fight his way through the guards blocking the way to his friend. He could still remember the burning rage and the almost feral determination to tear through flesh and sinew to get to Hermione. He had been scared of that side of him re-surfacing ever since, but it had never occurred. He stared sadly at the young witch in front of him. The idea that Hermione would never remember his name or tell him off for making up predictions for Divination had numbed from a burning sorrow to a steady throb that had slowly become part of his life. Although most of his classmates had felt deep sorrow at the end of their last year, none had felt as much as Ron, or so he thought. After he had lost both of his best friends, one in death and one in insanity, he had drawn away from the wizarding world, wasting away by the bed of the one he had used to call a know-it-all at least three times a day. He had felt like a darkness was creeping up on him just outside of the door, ready to swallow him up if he set foot out of the cold, white room. All of his classmates had tried, with no success, to make him let go of the suffering that had festered so deep within his heart that he had felt that he could never be free. He still remembered his sister's pale face, looking at him as she asked him how he felt. He had responded "fine", per usual. And she looked at him with that peculiar look of concern she had always saved for Harry as she always did before she started up a conversation about some topic Ron couldn't care less about. It had taken waking up in a hospital bed after collapsing from mal- nutrition to finally wake him up from his dreams of what could have been. That is behind me now, he reminded himself. I'm better now. I've got a job as a ministry official. All of it is behind me. But he knew he was lying to himself. Just the mention of Harry's name still brought tears to his eyes and he was in Hermione's ward more often than the Healers. He was still tied to the bushy-haired occupant of the bed in front of him. He had never given up hope of her recovery, though he had been repeatedly told though that there was no chance. There was no cure, no spell that could return the Hermione he knew to him. Yet on he stayed, sitting by her bed during his coffee break or lunch, practically spending the night at St. Mungo's so that he could comfort Hermione when she whimpered in her sleep about some unknown adversary. He just couldn't force himself to forget the chiding tone with which she had regarded them when they had not done their homework or the mischievous glint in her eye as she hurled a snow ball at his face. He just couldn't. With a sigh, he stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. He couldn't remember how long he had sat there. With one last look, he headed into the hallway. He knew he would be back tomorrow and the next day and the next day. And she would still be there. But something stopped him. It was the faintest sigh, so small a sound Ron almost believed he had made it up. It could easily be the wind, he told himself, though he could not keep his heart from soaring in a sudden burst of joy and renewed hope. He slowly turned to face the patient inside. He heard it again and this time he was sure she had said it. It was strange how one syllable could change his mood so drastically. Ron. That was all she had said, with a look of intense pain on her face. Then she collapsed into a jumbled heap on the bed, and spoke no more.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
A/N: Just so you know, this is a one-shot. Or at least, I think it is. I accept all reviews and thoroughly enjoy improving my work, so I love constructive criticism. However, I don't understand why people leave reviews that consist of:  
  
This story sux! Your writing sux! U sux!  
  
I don't see their purpose. If you're going to tell me I suck, at least use proper English. And if you want to be really reasonable, you might even tell me why I suck. That's a little pearl of wisdom, I do believe. Quite a novel idea, isn't it? Anyway, I urge you to press the little blue button and give me a review, because they give me much joy and happiness and blah, blah, blah. I love all of you very much and hope you believe this to be a valuable waste of your time.  
  
Menace 


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